


Tread the Path of Beauty

by Esteliel



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Coming In Pants, Frottage, Grand Prix Final Banquet, Light Bondage, M/M, Post-Canon, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 17:10:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8999566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: Yuuri isn't drunk, this time, not even a little tipsy: just flushed with love and filled with an excitement which flutters in his stomach, like the small bubbles of champagne bursting on his tongue.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [autoeuphoric (FreezingRayne)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreezingRayne/gifts).



> _For I must tell you that we artists cannot tread the path of Beauty without Eros keeping company with us and appointing himself as our guide._  
>  \--Thomas Mann

At the banquet, he downs glass after glass of champagne, too nervous to approach his hero, too embarrassed to stand silently next to his coach all night. He doesn't even taste the champagne. Bubbles burst on his tongue, then in his belly, heat spreading through him, and suddenly the anxiety is gone. There's nothing left but a quiet, warm recklessness, like that moment when you go into a jump and the second your feet leave the ice, you know that everything is perfect—and for a heartbeat, you fly.

Even from across the room, Victor is shining like gold—no, like platinum, something far above them all, but most definitely far above Yuuri. But there's music, and someone suggests a dance-off, and if there's one thing Yuuri knows how to do, it's to follow the beats of the music: losing himself in it until the worry and the fears are gone and it's just his body twisting and bending along to the demanding drums.

He can't remember rubbing himself against Victor until they show him the video months later, but even though he would never admit it, there are nights when he wakes up from dreams, flushed and embarrassed, and still feels Victor's firm, graceful body hard against his own.

***

One year later, there's another Grand Prix, and another banquet. Celestino is there, and so is Victor.

But this time, things are different: Celestino is not his coach anymore, although Yuuri can see the pride in his eyes despite his gruffness. And Victor—Victor is his plus one, as Phichit has teased. Which isn't technically true, because Victor is here as his coach, just as Celestino was last time.

Still, when Yuuri looks across the room to where Victor stands talking to a functionary, all quietly composed grace and confidence, there's the ring gleaming at his finger. And when Victor turns his head to give him that small, private smile that Yuuri has come to know so well, something inside his stomach tightens.

A few months ago, it would have been anxiety: all of Yuuri's fears and worries pulling him down into a morass of doubt, a dark spiral he could never escape from. Today, there's no doubt. This Grand Prix, he's learned to trust himself. Before, it always felt like he was becoming someone else on the ice: the music taking over to draw him away from himself. But that isn't true anymore.

This time, Yuuri was himself, every moment on the ice devoted to showing the world who he was: Katsuki Yuuri, who loved skating more than anything—and who loved Victor more than he loved skating.

Yuuri smiles at Victor. He raises one hand to brush the hair out of his face, seeing Victor's eyes light up as they linger on the ring on his own hand. And then, slowly and deliberately, Yuuri reaches out to take hold of a glass of champagne. He watches as Victor's eyes widen as he lifts the glass to his lips. He doesn't look away even for a moment as he sips, Victor's eyes darkening with heat while his cheeks flush.

Bubbles of air explode on Yuuri's tongue. He doesn't know anything about champagne; he's sure it's a good one, because the food at the banquet is always outstanding, although the champagne is a little too tart for his taste. Still, swallow after swallow, he empties the glass, never once breaking eye contact with Victor.

When he puts down the empty flute at last, it is Victor who swallows.

There's an answering heat on Yuuri's cheeks now, but it's not like the last time. He isn't drunk. There's no need for that this time. This doesn't take as much courage anymore, not after he's already skated his love on the ice for all to see.

This time, he wants to seduce Victor and remember every delicious second of it.

Someone turns up the music. From the rhythm, Yuuri is quite certain that it's JJ, but he doesn't turn to make sure. Instead, he walks towards Victor, who meets him halfway across the floor. A few people are already dancing: one of the judges is quite drunk, and from the corner of his eye Yuuri can see Yakov's ex-wife Lilia accept the coach's offered hand.

But Yuuri has eyes only for Victor. After all the practicing they've done for the gala program, moving together is natural. When he bends, Victor follows; when he arches, Victor yields, his supple body firm and familiar beneath his hands.

Yuuri can hear Phichit whoop; when he looks away from Victor for a heartbeat, Phichit gives him a thumbs up, grinning excitedly.

Was this how it started last time? Yuuri really can't remember, even after the pictures and videos. Everything is hazy, like a dream forgotten as soon as he wakes.

But that's okay. That was then. What he has is the memory of a beautiful summer spent together, endless hours on the ice with Victor's eyes on him, their days on the beach, the soaks in the hot spring.

What he has is now: the chance to make his own memories.

He takes Victor's hand, their fingers intertwining. He doesn't think, he just moves, and Victor moves with him. This is more carefree than their gala program on the ice, but in the end there is no real difference: Yuuri stops thinking and opens his heart instead, and what spills out of him together with the music is his love.

When the song ends, Victor is bent over backwards, his back perfectly arched with Yuuri's arm wrapped around him, supporting him. Victor's chest is rising and falling. Their faces are so close that Yuuri can feel the heat of his breath on his own lips.

For a moment, this is how they remain: motionless, looking at each other, as much in harmony as they've been on the ice.

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Yuuri dips his head and kisses Victor.

It's a chaste kiss, his lips brushing Victor's for the time of a heartbeat, Victor's mouth warm and pleased against his own. Then they straighten, still holding each other, still smiling, and Yuuri can't look away from what he sees in Victor's eyes. It's that same intangible thing that drew him in when he was a child and saw Victor skate for the first time. Even back then, there had been other skaters both technically brilliant and expressive on the ice, but there had been no one but Victor for him. 

Victor skated a love song to the ice every single time. Still, even though they are no longer on the ice now, his eyes are full of love as they shine at Yuuri. Victor is breathless, flushed and delighted; Yuuri has never in his life been so much in love.

They make their good-byes. Yuuri isn't drunk, this time, not even a little tipsy: just flushed with love and filled with an excitement which flutters in his stomach, like the small bubbles of champagne bursting on his tongue.

If he's drunk, he's drunk on love and his own courage. It isn't a bad feeling at all, especially for someone who's spent his entire life doubting himself.

“You seem different today,” Victor murmurs against his neck when they pause once, close to their room.

Yuuri exhales a little laugh and feels the way Victor's mouth curves against his throat.

“Not different,” he says, and then he trails his hand up Victor's chest, because he can, until he can wrap his fingers around the tie. He gives it a little pull, and Victor gasps softly. “Just happy.”

“Happy, even though you didn't bring me gold? I really wanted to kiss it, Yuuri,” Victor murmurs playfully, raising his head so that Yuuri can see the way his eyes have gone dark.

“You got your kiss, didn't you?” Yuuri is still grinning, he doesn't know how to stop.

Strange how he ended up losing and still feels like he won. He isn't quite sure what he won. Victor? But Victor has been his before.

Courage, maybe. The conviction that he deserves this.

They stumble into their bedroom. It's dark outside; the lights of Barcelona sparkle outside the window.

Together, they fall onto the bed. Yuuri ends up on top, Victor exhaling a pleased little huff of air. His head tilts back, his throat bare and tempting, and Yuuri's fingers move to his tie again, undoing the knot for no other reason but that he can.

When he's done, he pulls the tie away, opening the top button of Victor's shirt. Victor's throat moves as he swallows.

Yuuri traces a finger along the pale lines of sinews and veins beneath the skin. He always thought that Victor was perfection, a statue of marble, unreachable, out of his world. But like this, it's even better: Victor is perfection in flesh and blood, the firm body that can effortlessly land quads on the ice shivering beneath his touch. Flushed and disheveled, Victor is maybe even more of an artwork than he is during a perfectly performed pirouette.

The touch of Yuuri's mouth to Victor's throat wrings a groan from Victor. His hands come up, fingers threading through Yuuri's hair, holding him close as Yuuri nips at his skin.

When Yuuri finally raises himself, Victor give him a heated gaze. His lips are parted. There's a small, pink bruise where Yuuri's teeth have left a mark.

Yuuri drags the pad of his thumb over it. Beneath his touch, he can feel the rapid flutter of Victor's pulse. Then Victor arches against him, and this time it's Yuuri who can't quite suppress a moan. Victor is hard. He can feel the heat of it against his thigh. It makes his heart race; it's unlike anything he's felt before.

“Don't move,” Yuuri murmurs. He closes his fingers around the tie again.

Victor gives him a heavy-lidded look, all invitation, and Yuuri feels something tighten in his stomach again. He takes hold of Victor's wrists, breathless as he presses them into the pillow above Victor's head, and then quickly winds the tie around them, tying it in place.

Victor's chest is rising and falling rapidly. He's bitten his lips so that they are a tempting red, his eyes so dark they almost seem black.

“Yuuri,” he says. It's soft, almost voiceless, but his eyes are shining, pleased and eager.

Surprising Victor has never felt better than it does at this moment.

He's still hard, Yuuri can feel it when he shifts. There's an answering hardness in his own trousers, and for a moment the possibilities seem overwhelming. He could undress them. He could touch, explore, kiss, do anything he has dreamed of—do even things he hasn't even dared to dream of.

But then Victor moves beneath him, the bulge that tents his trousers pressing firmly against his own, and Yuuri gasps in response, heat shooting all the way up his spine. Victor is panting, still watching him from shining eyes until Yuuri shifts again. This time it's deliberate: he slides against Victor and is rewarded with a moan of abandon from him.

It's so good Yuuri forgets how to breathe. He holds himself up above Victor, his fingers grasping the sheets so tightly it hurts, and he does it again, and again. Victor's legs have spread, muscled thighs tightening around his hips as if to keep him in place, and Yuuri half laughs, half gasps into Victor's mouth as he moves against him, forgotten memories of grinding against him to the rhythm of some song slowly trickling back in.

But that was then, when he had to get drunk to even dare approach Victor.

Now he has Victor beneath him, and he doesn't want to forget a single moment of this: the way Victor's lips gleam in the twilight of their room, bruised from their kisses, the way Victor arches beneath him, surrendering to pleasure, the way Victor gasps—

“Yuuri,” Victor moans. A tremor runs through him, his eyes wide and overwhelmed.

Yuuri feels hot, unable to breath as sparks explode beneath his skin, need making him _ache_ —he grinds against Victor again, and then, even through the layers of fabric between them, he feels Victor's cock jerk just when his own climax crashes through him. Heat soaks through their trousers, and still he can't stop his hips from pushing forward, grinding them together in this mess of hot, sticky come until at last, it is over, and he finds himself collapsed on top of Victor.

Victor is breathing against his cheeks, his lips curved into a smile. His hands are still tied above his head. When Yuuri finally, apologetically, manages to reach out for the knot, Victor laughs softly, exhausted and pleased.

“Do you think they'll even let us come to the banquet at Four Continents?” Victor murmurs, eyes still shining when he tuns his head. His arms come down to wrap around Yuuri's waist, holding him close while their frantically beating hearts at last begin to slow.

Yuuri gives him a small, overwhelmed grin. “If they don't, we'll find our own entertainment.”

It's at least as much a promise as the rings on their fingers.


End file.
